


Tear You Apart

by cynicalcryptids (TheLazyCroissant21)



Category: MCR - Fandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Heavy BDSM, M/M, Murder, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Torture, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-08-25 12:55:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16661479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLazyCroissant21/pseuds/cynicalcryptids
Summary: Gerard Way and Frank Iero couldn't be more different from one another. One was a beloved art student, the other a sociopathic murderer. But their paths were always intended to cross and they were made to corrupt each other.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello everybody! it’s me again, back with an updated version of my orphaned story, Humans. i have decided, after over a full year has passed, it is most certainly overdue! i know a few people seemed to take some interest in the story and why i wasn’t updating it, so this goes out to those faithful users. thank you all so much for being patient with me and (most importantly) enjoy the first chapter!!!
> 
> xo cera

The blood was still warm, Gerard could feel it smothered and coagulated on his hands. He was shaking visibly, slumped in the passenger’s seat of a car that was alien to him as the driver—the murderer—swerved on tight turns and ran red lights. With a look at the clock, it was past midnight, and the sirens screaming were all that kept Gerard inside the car rather than dissociating somewhere else, escaping the trauma and disappearing into his own mind. He hoped that someone could come to his rescue, but he also knew that living past this meant living with insurmountable misery.

“Give me my fucking pistol!” shouted the man behind the steering wheel, his voice demanding and heavy with a Jersey accent. He took his right hand off the wheel and held it out to Gerard, a gesture that was obviously urgent.

Gerard fumbled around at his feet as his hands refused to work. He was sweating, bleeding, and crying; every time he grabbed hold of the handgun, it slipped back out onto the floor of the car as the man turned the vehicle roughly again. 

After a small battle, Gerard was handling the gun. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t thinking about shooting this guy—or himself—but it just seemed impossible to him. Gerard felt that if he tried anything, he’d just get more people killed. So he gave him the gun.

The man wielded it in his right hand, blood dripping off the edge of the barrel in a faint stream. The muscles of his forearm flexed as he adjusted his fingers to rest comfortably against the trigger, and Gerard caught glimpses of the sleeve of tattoos running down to his dirty fingertips. A traditional and colorful rendering of the Virgin Mary, pulsating heart surrounded by daggers gazed emptily at him, eyes black and pouring with blood. Mary maintained eye contact as the man fired several shots right above his head and out through the open passenger side window. Police car glass shattered and several car alarms were sent into unified panic.

Gerard sobbed helplessly, words coming out in distressed mumbles that no one cared to interpret. He had ducked down again and his hands were covering his ears—which were ringing from the gunshots—and blood got matted into his jet black hair. He felt he may faint, and faint he nearly did.

The gun was cocked audibly and Gerard felt the cold metal nudging his shoulder as the man ordered him to sit up. His cheeks were glistening with fresh tears. 

“Listen to me and listen well,” he said, gun still pointed at Gerard as he drove with his left hand on the wheel. He executed a messy left turn and side-swiped a parked car; the cops were just as intent on catching him as they were only moments before.

“If you fuck this up, your life is wasted. I don’t have time for this bullshit, alright?” 

He pushed the gun against his neck, making Gerard pull away and gasp, but there was really nowhere to go but up against the upholstery of the car door. Gerard looked up at the man, eyes fearful and pleading. His eyes were cold, however, and full of nothing save for detached anger. Gerard thought he saw a small smirk play on his lips, one that told him something like, _“You're mine.”_

Gulping, he looked into the rearview mirror and noticed how the police cruisers seemed to be gaining on them pretty quickly. He wanted to thank God, but he wasn’t out of this yet. The man appeared to notice too, as he shot a few more rounds out through the back windshield and grumbled, “We’ve gotta ditch this fucking car.”

The man behind the wheel adjusted the car’s trajectory and sped right through the parking lot of a sketchy gas station, the vehicle raising slightly off the ground with a heaving noise as he hit the curbs going at least 50 mph. They were approaching a backwoods forest, and he slammed their car directly into a large and unshakable tree.

As if the impact hardly ever happened, the man reached into the backseat and grabbed a duffel bag that was an obnoxious color of mustard yellow. Gerard retreated into his comforting slump against the sticky leather car seat and let out a few more tears that brought a painful sting to his eyes. This seemed to be the end of the line.

The murderer then thrusted his gun at the cowering Gerard, ordering him to get out. He pulled the handle and leaned against the door, spilling out onto the crunchy autumn leaves and spraining both his ankles in the process. A strong hand grabbed the back of his Smashing Pumpkins t-shirt and lifted him to stand mostly upright, pointing the gun at the side of his head. He played with the tension of the moment, pulling fearful sobs and _“please, no”s_ out of the boy before pulling the trigger, revealing that the chamber was empty before letting the gun fall by their feet. He twisted him around to glare into his eyes, seeing how they darted around in uncertainty and became shiny with even more pathetic, useless tears.

“My name is Frank. I just killed your parents. Do you have any fucking clue what they do to guys like us in prison?”


	2. Chapter 2

Held at knifepoint, the younger boy was shoved through the forest, legs nearly giving way whenever dirty converse slipped on dead leaves or tripped over tree roots. The cold air sent goosebumps up his pale skin, eyes too dry to produce any more tears of agony and hands covered in blood, and only some of it was his.

If it weren’t for the edge of the serrated blade jabbing into his back, Gerard would have assumed he was already dead. Frank was always there to remind him how he was not so fortunate.

This was not the first time Frank had faked his own death. But as he unzipped his duffel bag, a dreaded wave of realization washed over him. There was nothing in his bag besides guns and knives and objects vaguely torturous in nature. No first-aid supplies, no food, and—worst of all—no money. He cursed quietly to himself as he lead Gerard along, shoving him to the right to change his course, causing the boy to yelp in confusion and protest.

“What was that for?” Gerard questioned, voice meek but not lacking conviction.

“We have to make a detour.”

“You could’ve been polite about it. _’Hey, Gerard, buddy? Could you do me a kindness?’_ ” Gerard mocked an unrealistic version of Frank and felt another sharp sting in his lower back where blood was sure to have followed. This resulted in a pained squeak from the boy, and he resisted a bit with his legs before Frank shoved him forward with dominance, noting that Gerard’s name was really dorky.

“Did I stutter? _We are making a detour._ Last I checked, you were far from my buddy. And last this town checked, we’re both deceased. Don’t fuck this up, don’t make me repeat myself, and follow my fucking directions.”

Frank didn’t have to ask if he understood, the way Gerard’s pace sped up to match Frank’s told him that he was now willing to play along. They walked in silence until bright lights appeared blearily in Gerard’s vision, his eyes squinting just enough to be able to read the words on obnoxious sign. _“Quik Mart.”_ It looked out of place on a desolate dirt road, a haunting part of town Gerard had never known about. It seemed akin to a mirage in an oasis. It was clear, though, that Frank had been here before; he seemed all too familiar with the broken streets and the obscure backwoods. Even in darkness, he knew where to step and how to guide Gerard. As he looked back at Frank with mild confusion, even the man’s striking yellow eyes seemed to set off silent alarm bells and raise tiny red flags in Gerard’s head. 

Frank shoved him to his knees as punishment for even _daring_ to look back at him and began to rummage through his “supplies.” He found the revolver he was after and fiddled with the chamber, opening it and letting the six bullets spill out into the rest of the contents of the duffel bag. He then clicked the cylinder back into place audibly, causing Gerard to look over to the noise, as Frank stood up and grabbed his shaky wrist, forcing the gun into his hand. If all went according to plan, Gerard’s lack of gun experience would leave him unable to discern between a loaded and unloaded revolver, and Frank would test just how much Gerard wanted to stay sane.

“Wh-What’s this for…?” Gerard held it gingerly, like any movement he made might set the gun into an unrealistic frenzy. It was obvious he was afraid of it and its power.

“I need you to do me a big favor,” Frank began, hoisting Gerard up onto his sore ankles, “You think you can handle that, sweetheart?”

But Gerard’s head was already shaking back and forth as he tried to give the gun back to Frank in immediate refusal.

“Uh uh uh,” Frank looped Gerard’s fingers around the trigger and forced him to point it at himself.

“This is a true or false question.”

—

Frank was lighting a cigarette, muttering a flimsy, ‘good luck,’ and Gerard was gulping down anxiety, reluctantly swinging open the door. The bells jingled mockingly at him when he entered and the blond man behind the counter lowered his Playboy magazine and coughed to signify his presence. Gerard tightened his grip on the gun when they locked eyes and he then realized how much he wouldn’t be able to do this. But why die without robbing a gas station first? That was the logic of a boy of steadily declining mental health.

“Can I help you?” The man, labelled ‘Bob’ by his name tag, questioned, unsettled by how rattled and beat up the boy appeared to be. 

Gerard glanced outside, Frank was halfway through his cigarette, biting his lip ring and watching on expectantly. He made a vague ‘hurry the fuck up,’ gesture and rolled eyes as if it was so straightforward. Looking back to the cashier, Gerard found a new sense of determination in himself when he pulled out the gun at pointed it directly at Bob’s head, his hand instantly flinching and his bloodshot eyes blinking away the tears that wanted so desperately to fall. 

“Hey, whoa! Whoa, dude, what the fuck?” The man yelled, standing up and stepping back, throwing his arms up above his head in surrender. He swore that he would never work the graveyard shift again in his life.

“Just—empty the c-cash register,” Gerard blurted, his fingers playing with the instinct of pulling the trigger.

It was at this point that the Quik Mart cashier realized that the teenager performing the half-hearted stick-up had absolutely no idea what he was doing, and with an easy examination of the gun, Bob had figured out it was unloaded. But of course Gerard hadn’t.

“I said, empty your fucking cash register,” he repeated, this time in a sterner tone. He fixed a sweaty grip on the revolver and stepped closer, urging, threatening.

“Listen, there’s no reason to—“

“Do it,” Gerard said, trying excessively hard to keep his voice steady. “Please,” he added, feeling a pang of remorse for his actions.

Bob said something to try and calm him down but Gerard didn’t hear it. He lowered his hands slowly to reach the cash register that had little to offer. Gerard’s aim followed his head, but Bob made a sudden movement that the boy didn’t expect. He took advantage of the moment (and of Gerard’s useless gun) and tackled him, dragging him over the counter and into the area in which the employees stood when working the cash register. Tens of little baubles clattered to the ground.

Before Gerard even knew what was going on, Bob was straddling his chest, rough knuckles slamming into his cheek.

“Wh—“ and another, busting his lip.

The taste of iron and the pain flooding his head were enough to make him want to pass out right there, his weak body felt like it was time to collapse completely every time a hand came in contact with his face. But he heard bells jingle in his pathetic state, useless arms hitting tile and his eyes rolling back when a bored and familiar voice made an entrance.

“I’d like a pack of Marlboro 100’s,” Frank requested with a sigh, throwing a handful of change onto the counter and running an inked hand through his hair. Bob didn’t respond, and Frank very obviously knew what was happening; it was not only audible, but he saw it all through the windows and neon open signs.

“Never mind, I’ll just steal ‘em,” he said, feigning annoyance, hoisting himself over the counter littered with postcards and lottery tickets and knocking practically everything over on his way that hadn't already fallen. Gerard squinted up at the ceiling lights as Frank said something incoherent, making expressions that the lifeless boy couldn’t read while pulling that switchblade knife out of his boot. Quickly and without hesitation, Bob’s blood was spilling out onto Gerard and his throat was slit so deep, it seemed like a half-assed decapitation.

Clothes ruined, nose broken, head pounding, and now even more traumatized than he was ten minutes ago, Gerard sat bolt upright, spitting blood onto the ground and shuffling himself away from the body. It was still twitching as Bob gurgled for air, and the eyes seemed to gaze deep into Gerard’s soul.

“What the fuck?! Why the fuck, how the fuck, wh—“ Gerard stammered.

“Is that your entire vocabulary?” Frank looked blank and generally irritated, wiping his knife on his jeans and grabbing his cigarettes from the shelves.

“You just fucking killed that dude! And your first thought is to grab the cigarettes?” Gerard was baffled, not even able to stomach the blood pooling near his sneakers. He held back the urge to vomit.

“Yeah?” Two steps towards him. “Well, you were planning to kill him too, or at least you thought you were,” Frank started, shoving the cigarette cartons in his duffel bag and picking up the revolver that skidded a few feet away from the scene. He tinkered with it for a moment, exposing the chamber and crouching down to Gerard’s level, who was retracted into the fetal position.

He revealed his trick, even dramatically shaking the gun to prove its emptiness and Gerard’s stupidity.

“Why?”

“It was a test, I knew you weren’t going to go through with it either way. Couldn’t risk it being messy if you failed,” Frank shrugged, “But if you were to pull the trigger, to try and take a human life, that…” he chuckled to himself, “now that, would have been a pleasant surprise.”

He threw the gun back into his bag, reaching out a hand to caress Gerard’s cheek, smearing more blood on his pale skin and admiring the contrast. Gerard shuddered, trying to scoot away but there was no room, no place to run and hide. He hit his head and Frank let out another chuckle. It was all too amusing to him.

“You know that you know too much, Gerard. And you know that I can’t let you leave now. But I have plans for you. I have big plans.”

Frank moved his fingers to Gerard’s nose, gripping the sides of it and snapping it back into place.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter is a little bit shorter than i anticipated, and i'm also sorry if it isn't as good as the first two. things will begin to pick up from this point onward, so i needed a transitional chapter to introduce you to it. thank you for reading !
> 
> xo cera

People often keep things of personal value in their pockets. In Bob’s pockets, Frank found a stick of gum, exactly four nickels, and a keyring with two keys. They jingled together minutely when Frank held them up to examine them. One was a key to a Ford car, and the other most likely gave the owner access to Bob’s living quarters.

Meanwhile, Gerard was ordered to grab some basic medical supplies; things like Aspirin, Ibuprofen, gauze, hydrogen peroxide, or anything else of basic necessity that could be stocked in a gas station. Frank gave him a plastic bag to put them in, and the cheery happy face seemed to mock him as he shoveled all the shelves had to offer into its bag. 

Frank was saying something but Gerard couldn’t bother to hear it. He was too focused on the daydream in his mind that lied to him, told him his parents and his younger brother were still intact and not rotting on the floor of his living room. His mind wandered to them…their blood soaking into the rug, their faces posed in eternal terror, their midsections being eaten by blowflies and maggots, their—

“Let’s get going, Gerard,” Frank announced for the second time, addressing Gerard as a human with a name, voice adamant and hands overflowing with those smiley plastic grocery bags. Taking a brief look around, Gerard came to realize that Frank had outright raided the whole store.

He thought said ‘okay,’ but it never formed its way out of his throat. He simply followed behind Frank and looked down at his bloody Converse, taking extra care to not step on Bob’s fingers even though Frank already had.

The cool Jersey breeze hit him like a bullet. Shivering, he gulped the fresh air into his lungs as if he had just been born. Frank was warm in a large coat, striding along confidently to the back of the gas station lot, where a blue Ford truck was parked, dents standing out in the dim, buzzing lights of the concrete building adjacent to them.

“Get in,” was all that was said as Frank shoved him into the compact space of the truck’s backseat. 

—

A cabin.

It appeared to be mostly structurally sound, though worn by old age. The ivy plants around it grew into the grooves of the wood, inviting its vines into the interior, and the roof looked like it had withstood many patch jobs over the years. Gerard had only a few seconds to behold it before Frank and his cold presence returned to his side.

Gerard’s wrists had been bound by a pair of handcuffs Frank found under one of Bob’s car seats, and Frank was then lurching him forward, yanking the cuffs to draw blood from Gerard’s bony wrists. They had crossed over a threshold into a particularly neglected room with its peeling wallpaper and creaking floorboards when Frank let go of the boy and kicked him in the lower back, laughing when he made a pained groan against the splintering floor. A door squeaked closed, but Gerard knew that he wasn’t alone.

“I think I owe you this,” Frank began, kicking Gerard in the stomach so he would roll over. “Sit up.”

“Owe me what?” Gerard asked breathlessly, wondering if he was referring to the kick he just gave him, as he slid back until his back hit the unyielding wall.

“An introduction,” he explained, pulling up a chair that had been facing a corner.

Gerard shuddered in place, his shoulders aching now from how his hands had been positioned behind his back. He tried to adjust to accommodate the soreness, but ended up evoking the bruises forming in his gut. He didn’t want any introductions, but he felt that if he did not humor the psychopath smiling at him, he would regret it.

No response from Gerard, but the silence was enough confirmation for Frank to continue.

“I’m Frank Iero, and I kill people for a living.” He stated it matter-of-factly, crossing his arms over his chest and biting his lip ring. It was a habit that Gerard was picking up on.

“I pick every victim at random. Sometimes they just _look_ at me wrong. I kill them because…well I’d kill myself if I didn’t.” This earned a hurt and confused look from Gerard as he mulled over what his words meant.

After a few moments of restive silence, Frank spoke once more, now up and pacing around the chair.

“Figured I’d just say it…you know, since we both know you’re never getting out of here alive.” He pouted, acting like he was upset about Gerard’s situation, even though he was the reason he was in it.

On that note, Frank threw his chair in Gerard’s direction and watched as it hit the wall and snapped in two. Gerard flinched harshly and let out a terrified scream, tossing his head to the side in an effort to protect his face. Frank cackled loudly and doubled over, while Gerard cried solemnly to himself, kicking and pushing himself _away._ The tears only made Frank happier.

As he felt the blood trickle down his fingertips, Gerard told himself that he wouldn’t break himself for this man. He would let him take his body because he didn’t have a choice but he would not let him take his spirit. He cast his hopeless stare downwards and felt a small bonfire ignite in them. He would not let him take his spirit.

“So impulsive!” Frank said aloud to no one in particular. He strolled over and kicked the broken chair closer to Gerard on his way. He then stooped down to his level, crouching and admiring how Gerard tried desperately to liberate himself. He loved the fire in his eyes, the writhing anger that was written in them.

“I’m gonna have so much fun with you, Gee. Can I call you Gee yet? I don’t think you’d be able to stop me anyways.”

“Get fucked,” Gerard spat, flailing his body in a contemptuous manner. It was all he could do to reiterate the point.

Frank stopped everything abruptly, giving Gerard the darkest of looks. It was like the bottom of a deep pit, and not unlike Hell itself. And then all of the emotion seemed to drain out from his face like blood from a stuck pig. He picked himself up and stormed out.

Gerard knew he would be back.


	4. Chapter 4

He left him there, coiled up on the filthy ground, for at least an hour. Gerard’s body was aching in a terrible way that it had never ached before. The metal digging into his wrists made him want to burst with frustration. He tried long and hard to pull his hands out through the cuffs, but it eventually dawned on him that he would have to saw off his thumb to pry himself free.

But when Frank came back, Gerard stopped moving and just laid there, unable to sit up. His face was pale with fright. Frank’s face was devoid of anything.

He traipsed over slowly, taking several seconds between each step. When he was finally there, looming over Gerard, his eyes were blistering with spite. He kicked him in the groin with the heel of his boot, a smirk completing itself on his face. Gerard twisted himself in agony and ground his teeth together.

“Forgive me,” said Frank. There was no feeling in those words, but the fact that he said them at all gave away his satisfaction.

He lashed out like a whip, grabbing Gerard’s left arm and hoisting him up by it. He pushed him against the wall before wrapping a red cloth around the upper half of his face. A whimper left Gerard’s throat, a growl left Frank’s. When he was sure Gerard was blind, he shoved him downward and let him crumble to the floor.

Shuffling could be heard by the boy, who had lifted his knees up to his chest. A heavy object screeched hard against the floorboards like the gritting of his teeth and Frank stepped out for a moment to bring in an even heavier object. These were most certainly two pieces of furniture. One more trip into the main room of the cabin, and Frank closed the door behind him. Metal clattered like a round of applause onto a surface, and Gerard was being ripped free from his cowering position again.

He was forced down into a upright sitting position on an _object_ he now understood to be a chair. His wrists were released, but only for a minute, so that Frank could loop the chain around one of the wooden poles that held up the back of the chair. Gerard knew that being blind was a disability, but he never paused to think about how scary it must truly be to not have sight. He felt like anything could happen at any moment, and Gerard would never know what hit him.

Frank paced over to the other side of the room, and then paced back. He circled the chair, dragging what felt like a knife against Gerard as he went. Every time he made a full circle, the knife’s pointed end seemed to dig a little deeper until there was _almost_ blood. Frank was silent, deep in thought or prayer or maybe neither.

Eventually, the knife stopped at his throat. Frank pressed it in enough to tamper with Gerard’s breathing and make a shallow cut but not enough to do any serious damage. Gerard made a feeble attempt to get away, but every time he scooted backward, the chair threatened to topple over. This brought a simple smile to Frank’s lips.

“Your struggle only pleases me,” Frank stated, as if he could read Gerard’s thoughts.

“You’re sick,” replied Gerard, more to himself than to Frank. He bit the inside of his cheek when Frank slid the knife down his front, scraping his worn t-shirt and then electing to cut it down the middle. It made a loud sound as he ripped it the rest of the way off, exposing Gerard’s pale skin. He shifted in an attempt to cover himself.

“I get that a lot.”

And with that, Frank left dark red slashes across Gerard’s soft torso. They weren’t too deep, but deep enough to split the flesh. There was a delay with each incision before the blood flooded the wound and poured out steadily down toward the floor. Gerard yelped helplessly and tried to move away from the knife, but it only made the cuts worse, opened them like mouths, forced the blood down faster until it was pooling by the legs of the chair. After a few minutes of this, Frank was breathing heavily and standing back, leaning on his right side, admiring his handiwork. He had no desire to kill Gerard, only to ruin him. Only to tear him apart, bit by bit and morsel by morsel.

Gerard was crying hard enough now to give him an intense, splitting headache at the front of his brain and yet his eyes were dry. Spit was spilling from the corners of his mouth as he tried to suck in air. His sneakers squeaked against the ground as he twitched in his uncomfortable wooden chair of a prison. A presence dissipated and a door slammed shut. Gerard moaned a horrible, pathetic moan and sobbed more. It was useless; he understood that this was the end of everything he used to cherish. Blood was staining everything around him, getting caught in the cracks of the hardwood floor. He knew that nothing could ever be the same after this, but still he prayed to whatever was above to let him leave this place alive. Kicking with unbridled fight and energy, Gerard managed to make the chair face away from the door as some kind of defiance. _He would let him take his body because he didn’t have a choice but he would not let him take his spirit._ His thoughts echoed in his head, pulsating in horrible rhythm with his migraine.

This is how Gerard Way would spend the next six months of his life.


End file.
